


ghost chips

by kiiouex



Series: TRC Kink Prompts [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Is There A Tag For Ghost-Related Voyeurism, M/M, That's Really The Only One I Need Here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 10:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10717866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex
Summary: “He’s sobig,” Noah whispers, unhelpful, eyes alight, and knowing that Skov is the only one that can hear him is not doing anything to help his self-control.





	ghost chips

**Author's Note:**

> eyy more prompts from [tumblr](http://kiiouex.tumblr.com/post/159557745989), except this one is not even remotely what I was asked to do. I'm naming it in honour of [my country's national meme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CtWirGxV7Q8).
> 
> Alternate title suggestions from [telekinesiskid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid): 'does is Noah gay' and 'now that he's a ghost, I'm gay'

It’s one of those days that Skov calls ‘hangover Sundays’. He tends to survive Saturday nights better than the rest of his crowd; Proko and Jiang are useless until the afternoon, K’s high on something else to prolong his crash and impossible to talk to, and Swan’s walking it off better than any of them, but Sundays he has church. 

It means that Sundays are good days for him to do the things the others have no interest in, to go jogging, or to the skate park without Proko and Swan drinking, bored and heckling him from the side-lines. Nicer to go when no one else is there - and when no one else is there, he gets to chill with the ghost. 

Number one dead giveaway for identifying ghosts lurking around skate parks: they wear the Aglionby uniform even on the weekend. 

Noah’s there when Skov arrives, but barely, blending in against grey concrete and grey sky, blink and you’ll miss him. He’s still cheery though, never mind that he doesn’t have his own board and he only ever sits by the railing, and never mind that his Aglionby sweater is rumpled and completely sad. He’s still _cute_ , big smile, plush lips, absolutely the kind of boy Skov would wreck if he ever showed up for one of K’s parties.

“Sup,” Skov greets, tousling Noah’s hair as soon as he’s close enough, “Anything new with you?”

The answer is usually _no_ , but today Noah chews on the inside of his cheek in deep consideration, before confiding, “Ronan’s bird bit me yesterday.”

“I still can’t believe Lynch has got a pet fucking vulture,” Skov agrees, quite a few different feelings expressed just through that – mostly disbelief, that Noah knows Lynch, well enough to get savaged by Lynch’s _bird_ , and that Kavinsky somehow finds bird ownership an attractive quirk. Each to their fucking own, apparently.

He skates for a while, long easy curves up and down the half-pipes that are the best Henrietta’s skate park has to offer. Noah watches, eyes murky with jealousy and want, as much on the skateboard as on Skov himself, but that’s their routine, and Skov’s good at blotting it out.

It takes a while before he’s aware enough of Noah’s eyes on him to want to show off – and later, he’ll blame that same attention for making him fuck it up. He tries to build up enough speed to grind along the railing, but hits it wrong, lands rough on the concrete in a pile of regret and torn skin while his board rolls gently away. Noah laughs, brightly savage and delighted, even as he creeps over to inspect the damage. Skov’s fine – has broken his left arm twice, has walked off so much worse than this – but it still seems like a fair time to tag out and indulge Noah with a turn.

He looks like something about death has made him shy; he glides around, unambitious but content with the rumble of the wheels. Skov’s seen him try a few standing tricks before, but maybe he’s trying to spare himself the humiliation today - dead seven years, and Noah still can’t do a kickflip. Skov thinks he’d look good with a split lip and blood around his grin, which is the kind of unhelpful suggestion he’s always right on the verge of making.

The best part about skate park ghosts: they do not eat any of his fucking snacks while he’s not looking, even if Noah does have a weird habit of crumpling the bag like he likes the sound. Skov does share his smokes though, and even if Noah never takes a drag he seems to like it, having the scrap of heat in his hands, eyes on the stream of smoke every time Skov exhales.

Sometimes Noah looks at him in a way that makes Skov think he is more than a little in love with him. Every time he catches him, Skov wonders if ghosts can be gay. Possible evidence: Prokopenko? Not quite the same, but still two more mostly-dead probably-queer boys than most people know. Skov thinks about kissing Noah, wonders if he’d taste cold, wonders if he’s actually up for it and if it’s worth asking anyway. It’s one of those things that feels as inevitable as a car crash, with too many endless Sunday afternoons and smoke passing between them.

They sit on the curb together, Noah slowly grinding a single chip to fine dust, eyes on all the scabs on Skov’s knuckles, Skov eating the rest and absently rolling his board back and forth under one foot. That’s where Swan finds them, greeting Skov with a gentle foot to the ribs. “You’re still hanging around here?”

“Just chilling,” Skov answers. Swan’s Sunday best is still half on him, jacket over his shoulder, tie loose around his neck, looking like he’s ready to get out of the rest of it and he wouldn’t mind a hand. Skov would not mind helping. He half-rises, then figures it’s probably too rude to completely bail on someone for sex, asks, “Have you met Noah before?”

“Who the fuck’s Noah?” Swan asks him.

Noah saves Skov the confusion, saying in his quiet voice, “He can’t see me.” Couldn’t hear him either, apparently, as the space where he spoke was a weird silence from Swan’s perspective, made worse by Skov actually glancing back down at where Noah’s sitting to listen. He hadn’t realised that was part of being a ghost – Proko was visible to everyone, _too_ visible sometimes, especially when doing dumb bullshit or vomiting – and it takes Skov a second to reorient himself with this new information.

“He’s – no one. Some guy I know,” Skov says, faintly rude but sparing himself more of Swan’s distrustful expression. He tries laughing it off, like maybe he’s buzzed enough that his thoughts aren’t quite in order. “What’s up, anyway?”

“I’m heading back, figured I’d bring you along too.” There is something very deliberate in the way Swan’s standing, head cocked, eyes obvious on Skov’s collar, and it tells Skov about everything he needs to know: he’s going to bail on Noah for sex.

He doesn’t really have a way to say goodbye that wouldn’t make him look strange, so he just says, “Yeah, I’m coming,” and sends a glance back over his shoulder. Noah’s standing, chip dust on his pant legs, and he’s seen exactly the way Swan’s looking at Skov, how quick Skov was to respond. Skov’s not sure if he should try and transmit an apology, but Noah starts to smile, something faint and wicked, something absolute mischief, and he begins to follow.

 _Swan can’t see him_ , Skov thinks, and then it’s like he’s swallowed an ice cube, possibility flooding him, so tantalizing it feels like his skin is prickling. He talks shit with Swan the whole way back to Aglionby, aware of the ghost shadowing his steps, just a few feet behind, aware that Noah’s still grinning with the kind of edge that makes his stomach turn over.

At their dorm room, Skov leaves the door open long enough for Noah to slide in behind him, the biggest non-verbal invitation he can give. Swan actually bothers to hang up his jacket; Skov watches Noah circle around, eyes wide on their posters, the mounds of clothes neither of them ever pick up, all the shit K’s given them poorly concealed, jammed in a crack between the bed and the dresser.

Swan’s hand settles on Skov’s shoulder, physically turns him around, so he can scrutinise his face for signs of a buzz. “You’re so fucking spacey today,” Swan complains, cupping Skov’s chin. He’s over a head taller than him; up close, Skov has to crane his neck to look far enough up. “You get that lonely without me?”

“I’m fine,” Skov replies, so completely aware of Noah’s eyes on him as he winds his arms around Swan’s shoulders. It’s a challenge not to look at the ghost, but he manages, plucks at Swan’s shirt instead. “You taking this off before you get it dirty?”

“Why don’t you help?” Swan asks and sure, yeah, Skov can do that, he can keep his focus on undoing all the dress shirt’s buttons to help Swan shrug out of his clothes, while Swan drags his muscle tee over his head with ease. It’s easier to ignore Noah with Swan’s board chest in front of him, and Skov presses his mouth to the tattoo over his collarbone, just kissing, still nice, while Swan’s hands rub warm and firm over his back.

He walks them back, until Swan’s bed hits the back of Skov’s knees and the two of them drop, Skov falling into place on Swan’s lap, easy as anything. It stretches his thighs just to get his knees either side of Swan’s hips, but he’s used to it; the two of them fit together well. He arcs up to kiss Swan, tugs on Swan’s lip ring once, teasing, lets Swan suck on his tongue stud and just melts for him, arms and legs wrapped around Swan, savouring the heat and the familiar touch.

A single cold finger trails down Skov’s neck; he shivers all at once, from the chill and the reminder that Noah is present and apparently tired of just spectating. Noah runs a hand all the way down the exposed curve of Skov’s spine, and excitement has Skov gasping into Swan’s mouth, hips shifting unconsciously.

One of Swan’s hand splays over his thigh; “This worked up already?” he murmurs into Skov’s ear, like he can’t feel it with their hips pressed together. Noah exhales on Skov’s other side, and the thrill is practically a convulsion, has him bucking until Swan’s fingers dig in, cock getting hard beneath him. “God, you’re eager.”

“Just in the mood,” Skov lies, canting his hips a little more, grinding up against Swan until Swan growls, low in the back of his throat, and catches his lower lip in his teeth. His hands are almost big enough to circle Skov’s waist, and when Skov gets him really worked up, he gets enough pretty purple marks pressed into him to keep him happy for days.

He slides off Swan’s lap without instruction, aware of Noah shifting wordlessly out of his way but still too afraid to look at the ghost directly in case it gets too much harder to pretend like he isn’t there. Behind him, he hears Swan tugging his pants off as he goes to fumble in his dresser drawer for the bottle of lube that is basically a necessity where Skov was concerned. He’ll take him with spit if he has to, if it’s five in the morning and he needs to get out of his head more than he needs to be able to walk, but today is not a day he needs that kind of rough treatment, not when Noah’s still watching him, smirking and silent.

Skov hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts, and he hasn’t been self-conscious in front of Swan for at least a year, but Noah is a different story. Ghosts can very definitely be gay; Noah’s eyes dip down as he drops his shorts, interest unabashedly scrawled over his features, and there’s heat in Skov’s cheeks as he returns to Swan.

He wants to just sink right back down in Swan’s lap, bury his face in Swan’s shoulder and ride him, watched but not more aware of it than a cool touch on his back can make him. But Swan says, “Why don’t you turn around, babe?” and cheeks burning, heart pounding, anticipation tight in the tips of his fingers, Skov does as he’s asked.

He sits up on his knees on the edge of the bed, back pressed to Swan’s chest, and he can’t see Swan lubing himself up, but he can hear the wet stroke of it. Worse is Noah, still grinning, circling closer as Swan presses a kiss to Skov’s shoulder and eases a first slick finger into Skov’s ass. They fuck so often, it should be easy, should be expected, but Noah’s gaze so _curious_ that Skov shudders out a breath, body tensing around Swan’s finger, hips dipping like he wants to take him in deeper. He is eager; he’s so fucking turned on by having an audience that his cock is dripping, and they’ve fucked in front the rest of the pack plenty of times but this is different, this is just about him, this is a fucking _ghost_ that’s here just to watch him get railed.

Noah cups Skov’s face in both hands, and Swan thrusts in with a second finger, working him open good and slick, and Skov’s legs tremble with the effort of keeping him up and not just dropping straight down onto Swan’s cock. All of Noah’s _cute_ feels weaponised; no boy should look like that, so bright and pleased, at the sensation of someone else shaking under their hands. Noah kisses him, easy when Skov’s panting open-mouthed, tongue flicking over Skov’s stud like he’s still just curious, and Skov’s hips shudder an inch downwards before he catches himself.

“You are fucking _desperate_ ,” Swan tells him, mouth against his skin and endlessly hot. “How about I just give you what you want?”

“He’s so _big_ ,” Noah whispers, unhelpful, eyes alight, and knowing that Skov is the only one that can hear him is not doing anything to help his self-control. He shivers as Swan’s fingers slip out; Noah puts his mouth right up to his ear. “Are you really going to take him?” he asks. “I bet you’re going to scream.”

Skov almost wants to, just for him. Instead he lets Swan guide him down, and he groans out, pure exaltation. Swan’s cock is an absolute fucking monster, and even as practiced as Skov is, they take it slow, Skov panting with the effort of every inch that sinks into him, Swan whispering encouragement against his neck. It takes work before their hips are flush, and Skov’s head is pressed back against Swan’s shoulder, eyes closed, delighting in the sheer stretch and fullness of it.

“Good boy,” Swan says into his skin, rolling his hips once, a movement Skov is helpless to follow, thighs straining to open wider but already spread over Swan’s lap as far as they can go. Swan’s hands settle on him, one over his hipbone, one wrapping around his dick, rubbing him in slow movements, aware that too much of anything is going to set Skov off easy.

“You look like you feel so good,” Noah tells him, right before Skov feels icy fingers tug on his nipple; the ghost is as close as he can get without touching Swan, and as eager to set hands on Skov as Skov is to let him. He’s too close for Skov to check if he’s got a ghost boner, but that doesn’t matter, the want in his eyes is warm enough to speak for him. He kisses every inch of Skov that Swan hasn’t got covered, makes him shudder hot and cold, keeps his hands pinching Skov’s front while Swan sits warm as an engine behind him.

 _Ghosts probably don’t get a lot of action_ , is all Skov can think, as his dear skater buddy’s hands hungrily takes him apart.

Swan keeps rocking his hips up, both gentle and merciless, clearly feeling sweet on a lazy afternoon, completely unaware of Noah curling fingers in Skov’s hair just so he can tug and see Skov whimper. All Swan gets to see is Skov wired, oversensitive; Skov knows he’s probably setting himself up for some weird talk later as he shivers, so on edge it’s starting to hurt, from invisible hands feeling him up.

It’s probably a given that he’s not going to last long, and Noah doesn’t help with that, whispering, “You look like you’re close – are you waiting for his _permission?_ ” and he’s not but _fuck_ , now he’s thinking about that, working his hips as much as he can, pushing back down on Swan with all his desperate intensity, stuffed full and _adoring_ it.

Noah has never looked quite as alive as he does watching him now, pasty cheeks almost flushed, hands locked in Skov’s hair and pulling like he can’t help himself; he runs fingers over Skov’s fresh grazes, presses a kiss to his mouth something like tender, and all the while his black eyes follow every hitch of Skov’s breath, drinking in the sight of him like _this_ was all he’d ever missed.

Swan laughs against his shoulder, a breathy sound, says, “You can come if you want,” at the same time his hand on Skov’s cock squeezes, thumb gliding over the head, and that’s fucking it. His back arches at an obscene angle, his knees slide open an impossible fraction more, fitting Swan even deeper inside him, and he comes with a groan that’s half a scream, strangled and ruined in his throat. He feels the heat all the way from his forehead down his neck, burning hot and embarrassingly red, knows he shot out on his stomach and probably on Noah’s fucking Aglionby jumper too, the ghost was so close, but he doesn’t want to unstick himself from Swan to look.

Every other thrust Swan makes in him is agony, overwhelming, his own hips rolling on with the motion like a ragdoll, too weak to resist. He can feel Swan’s pulse in him, feels his hands tighten – one still on his dick, too sensitive, sending sparks firing through Skov’s head that he can’t keep up with – and then he shudders along with Swan through his orgasm, full and good and finally spent.

He doesn’t want to look at Noah as Swan pulls out of him with a lewd, slick sound. Cum dribbles down his inner thigh, but he’s not on his own bed, so he just throws himself down with a groan, still filled with sticky heat. Swan collapses beside him, smugly pleased, and reaches for his phone a minute later, because god forbid any of them go more than three minutes without thinking about Kavinsky.

Noah’s hand creeps onto Skov’s shoulder, black eyes content, smile quiet and not at all fitting for how wicked he’d been just minutes ago. “I’ll see you next week,” he says, clasping his freezing fingers around Skov’s biceps for just a second before he’s gone – blink and you’ll miss him, totally disappeared.

**Author's Note:**

> tk also keeps saying 'blink (182) and you'll miss him' who needs her honestly


End file.
